


A Thousand Different Ways

by AwayLaughing



Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: 7KPP Secret Santa 2017, 7KPP Week, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: The Jiyel Scholar confronts the truth - or rather, her lover does.{Jiyel Scholar and each love interest, on her personal plot}





	A Thousand Different Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [krwawnik](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=krwawnik).



> _"Truth can be stated in a thousand different ways, yet each one can be true."_  
>  -Swami Vivekananda
> 
> For Millea, I hope you enjoy it!

You supposed it was too much, really, to hope he wouldn’t snoop. Honestly, it was probably only a matter of time before Hamin let himself into your rooms for one reason or other, it was just bad luck that he found you comparing notes with Cordelia.

 

And then poor forethought that you refused to share in your discussion with him.

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

 

“Yes,” you say, “I found a cure, so I was just trying to find a good time...” it’s a bad excuse. You mostly didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want it to be a big thing full of messy emotions and fears and...and...

 

“And if you hadn’t?” he asks. “Would I have just had to watch, Glitter, as you slowly started to shine less and less until you were just a ghost?”

 

You can admit, that maybe emotions are not your strong suit. Nor people, not all the time anyway. And Hamin is a particularly aggravating member of the people group – but you can certainly tell you’ve somehow stumbled into _something_ here. Of course it’s not entirely surprising – he’d been quite shaken by the incident with the balcony, even if only for a moment.

 

“Hamin no,” you say, carefully drawing closer. “I had several back up plans, and one of those was to tell someone I trusted. And you- you I trust.”

 

Another moment passes, and you fear it wasn’t enough. You take a moment to picture yourself, heart in hands trying to beg forgiveness for something that isn’t entirely your fault, from someone who is also keeping a host of secrets from you. Indeed, you start to consider bringing out your own grievances just to make a point – and then realize Hamin’s expression has shifted into something more within the realm of usual.

 

You shelve the potential debate on ethics and secret keeping – insomuch as it would have been a debate.

 

“Trusting the pirate with secrets, Glitter? I thought you Jiyel delegates were the smart ones.”

 

“I thought you Hise delegates were the sneaky ones, but here you are, caught out flat footed by a Jiyeli nerd.”

 

Hamin laughs. “Alright Glitter, fair enough,” he says. “We will have this discussion at a later time.”

 

“Yes, when you’re feeling more reasonable,” you say. He makes a face at you.

 

“Glitter, you cannot reason with a pirate.”

 

“Out!”

 

* * *

 

 

Zarad puts the letter down very gingerly, despite the fact it’s not the original. The original you burned, outside and well away from any other humans. Or possibly not, someone is always watching and frankly you think they might be watching you particularly hard. In which case burning a letter outside probably has lead to some interesting theories about you. Still, he sets down the letter as if it will bite. Then he proceeds to say nothing.

 

“I thought we were going to have a long discussion,” you say.

 

Zarad’s expression is downright bemused. “Alas, my lady it appears you have left me without anything to say. I am simply aghast. You are to trouble as dousing rods to water.”

 

“Oh yes, you’re utterly wordless,” you say, relief unknotting the feelings in your chest. “Anyway – as you can see it was really no cause to worry in the end. I dealt with it appropriately and it is done. I am really none the worse for wear,” you consider for a moment, “indeed, I learned a new skill.”

 

He arched an eyebrow.

 

“Medicine brewing – it’s very precise you know.”

 

To your surprise he laughs, so much he buries his face in his hands. It’s distracting enough you don’t realize he’s up to anything until you end up in his lap. “Your highness-!”

 

Your objection is covered by the way he buries his face in shoulder. “You,” he says, voice muffled and strained – hopefully with laughter since if Zarad start crying you are going to start wondering if you’ve gone insane. Or you’re entire past few weeks have been a poison induced fever dream. “-are incredibly impossible.”

 

“If I were impossible I wouldn’t be here,” you say tartly, driving an elbow into his hip. He lets you go, and you dance off his lap and out of his grip. “I’ve told you before, speak sense.”

 

“And I’ve told you, you leave me senseless.”

 

* * *

 

 

You never really expected to be in Gisette’s bedroom, much less summoned to it. Still, you’re here and you watch with bemusement as she sits at her desk, writing something.

 

“You’re welcome to the couch, and the sweets” she says without looking up. “I am just writing a thank you note.”

 

“Of course,” you say, taking a sweet as if ordered to. Despite your self, you find you are nervous. Unbidden, your mind goes to the other night but...no. She had already said, in her own way, that she wasn’t likely to do any such things again. You settle a little easier with the thought, watching her back curiously. Gisette’s posture is perfect of course, and she’s hard enough to read from the front that you don’t get much of anything from behind, other than appreciation for her hair.

 

“My apologies,” she says after a few minutes, finally standing as she puts the letter in an envelope and seals it. “It was very important that I show my gratitude quickly,” she says.

 

“I hadn’t any plans,” you say. A half-lie, there’s always something to do here, but you had not yet chosen exactly what it was you were going to do, so this works just as well.

 

“Good,” she says, settling next to you. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been poisoned?”

 

You drop the sweet.

 

Gisette does not have a look of smug amusement on, or bored superiority or faux-sweetness. She’s...very serious and you find it hard to keep her gaze.

 

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say. You know it’s an evasion, and even while you internally try to chide yourself for such foolishness, you cling to it. “It was...exploitable.”

 

“And you think I would exploit you?”

 

You look up. _No_ you could say _of course not_. But you’re not sure you’re that good a liar. “If you had to, yes,” you say. She just keeps looking at you for a moment, before she nods.

 

“Turn around,” she says, “let me comb your hair.”

 

* * *

 

 

The tea cup shatters, and the thick, syrupy liquid inside drips down like blood. Except not because it is not at all the colour of blood that has met oxygen. Jarrod stands in front of you, his fury mounting by the second but your head hurts to much to care.

 

“You would pay more attention to _tea_ than me?” he asks – shouts really.

 

“It’s not tea,” you say. You’re not usually as testy as him – but your _head._

 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he asks, apparently a touch startled by your words.

 

 _Yes_ , you want to say but it won’t help. Not now, not in the long run so instead you force yourself to look up. “It’s antidote for a posion,” you say, voice pitched to carry.

 

“As if- what?”

 

“Antidote,” you say again, “I was poisoned. Contact poison on a letter actually it’s exceedingly rare and I do think it’s impressive-”

 

You’re cut off by him crushing you into a hug. Your muscles have been tensing slowly this whole time, so it hurts a little, but it is also incredibly comfortable. He’s warm, and firm and you melt a little into it. Then he lets you go.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

 

You blink at him. “You know how important it is to be strong,” you say, “sharing a weakness instead of addressing it is counterproductive.”

 

He looks down at you, considering with a frown. Finally he brings his hand up to your shoulder, squeezing hard. “Make more,” he says. “You will not be forgiven, if you let this poison beat you.”

 

* * *

 

 

You are in the middle of a letter – to one of your old tutors who has reached out to congratulate you on, essentially, not being an utter failure or, so far, shaming the nation and ruining your family name – when Jasper sets a cup down beside you. Usually you would not not bother writing back to this sort of thing, but your former tutor has framed it in such a way that suggests they had more faith in you than most.

 

“Thank you,” you say not really looking up. It’s pleasantly warm in your hands, and you take a sip – and promptly spit it out. Bitter and tangy – and very familiar. The liquid is a syrupy dark red-brown, and you look down at it in surprise before looking up at Jasper. “Jasper?” you ask, too taken aback to say anything else. You had not foreseen Jasper figuring out your secret – not now that it was essentially moot. Dealt with, and you were alive and the poisoner corrected.

 

Jasper just looks at you, expression as still as if he were painted. You are not prone to poetry – but in this case you are being very literal. He’s always hard to read, yes, but you’ve never seen him like this.

 

“Nothing came of it, Jasper,” you say once the silence becomes – even for you – uncomfortable.

 

“Not this time,” he says and the weight of it makes it impossible to keep meeting his gaze. You study the rug instead, only to still at a touch. A piece of stray hair, which you hadn’t even noticed, is pushed away from your face, his fingers brushing your cheek. Up and behind your ear – his fingers leaving a hot line.

 

Then it’s gone, but you dare not move. You can hear his breathing – carefully controlled in a pattern set forth by Tolla, an ancient physician who studied the art of breath and how it affected the heart. Then it’s gone, and you look up only to find he’s somehow crossed the room and left entirely.

 

Unduly shaken – and trying to grasp what has happened – you turn back to your letter.

 

You drink the medicine.

 

* * *

 

 

You cannot think of anything more surreal – and yes truly so, in the _destructive reasoning_ sense – than finding Cordelia comforting Ana at the lakeside docks, yet here you are. Staring at that exact scene while hiding in the bushes. Illogical, potentially idiotic and probably indecorous if not outright unethical as it is, you can’t bring yourself to show yourself, or leave them to it.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Cordelia is saying. She doesn’t sound as stilted as you would expect given the situation. Indeed, she sounds almost comfortable.

 

“No,” Ana agrees. “I – we came to this summit thinking it was fluffy-fluff full of silly stuffies. We all said, _we_ _are different in Skalt, we live hard. We do not prance and dance and scuttle around in the dark like snow lice_.”

 

“But?” Cordelia asks. But what, you agree. Ana is certainly not one to “scuttle around in the dark” like anything, louse or otherwise, and her fellow delegates did not seem any less...pragmatical.

 

“It is not a happy thing, to know you have lied to yourself,” Ana says. “We do live hard, we fight for everything – for food and shelter. And then we laugh loud – no titters – and we play like we live. But also we are not so different. We make daughters be their mother’s mirror, we mock weakness from behind – stabby stabby flanking-words – and we make poison that kills when it touches. No defence, no honour, just slow death.”

 

You gasp – and slap a hand over your mouth. Both girls turn, but after a moment they turn back to one another.

 

“I don’t think you can take responsibility for a plant that grows only in your country, princess,” Cordelia says. You can picture the face Ana makes at that.

 

“Gah – Ana! Yes we make daughters into mirrors, but princess is not the word! There is no puffy dresses and tiny sandwiches!” A beat, “though maybe tiny sandwiches would not be so bad.”

 

Cordelia coughs in her fist – you can’t judge if it’s amusement or offense for her tiny sandwiches and puffy dresses. “Yes well,” Cordelia says, “it’s getting late and I will need to change before supper, so if I may take my leave?”

 

Ana just waves a hand at her, and Cordelia bustles past. The sun is behind her, so if she looks at you it’s hard to tell, but after the sound of her dress disappears Ana speaks.

 

“You are not so good as your watchy-watchy staring man,” Ana says, “but green is a good colour for camouflage.”

 

“Do you think you can still teach me?” you ask, standing and brushing yourself down. You shall really need to change before supper – Ria would cry if you showed up like this.

 

“Yes,” Ana says, “because I have the chance still. Lucky me, to have a pretty lady who is smarter than poison is deadly.”

 

(That night, you notice that Cordelia’s dress is particularly large in circumference)

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh my lady,” Ria says, face gone bone-white. She’s sat down in shock, so surprised by your proclamation she’d set down on your bed. “Who would – _why would_ -” she stops herself, apparently overcome. You gingerly pat her back, trying to think of what to say.

 

“Well they thought I was my cousin,” you say.

 

“Your poor cousin!” she says and bursts into tears

 

Poor Jiya? “Er, yes,” you say. “Ria...it all worked out and the person who did this isn’t going to try again. It was about getting their son into the summit, and now it’s far too late and there’s no point.”

 

Ria manages to control her sobbing so they’re down to a sniffle. “It’s just so unfair your ladyship,” she says. “First the horse ride and then you had to save Imogen and the Matchmaker was breathing down your neck. And you were poisoned the whole time and still you were so _kind_ and helpful and you’re so smart and beautiful-”

 

“It’s not a trial, Ria, to be kind to you,” you say, cutting her off gently.

 

Ria gives you a watery smile, “they almost took you away from me and I already don’t know-”

 

You press a kiss to her cheek. “They didn’t,” you say, “so there’s no logic in fretting over that.” You wonder if you should tell her about any of the other events she doesn’t know about. Logically and ethically it would be the only proper thing, but...for now you just sit together, feeling her warmth against you.

 

* * *

 

 

While Emmett’s lands are lovely, and his sister and stepmother fine in their own right, it is the cottage you love best. Set on the coast, on a clear day with a telescope you can actually see the nearest part of Corval. At night, the wide water and grassy plains have the odd and admittedly nonsensical effect of making the stars seem all the more vast.

 

Today it is sunny, the sky clear of everything but a few clouds, and you and Emmett are enjoy a picnic – arranged by him, not you. It’s warm and it’s quiet and you are happy to let Emmett wax poetic about flowers.

 

“-but the _cure_ is only found on the Isle? Am I boring you?”

 

“Hm?” you say, a little startled. He wasn’t, he really was not you loved his enthusiasm for...everything. Adored it. “No, you’re soothing is all,” you say. “The cadence of your voice once you start really getting into a story is exactly that which-” you cut yourself short, seeing the way his eyes sparkle. “Well I was. You were talking about a Skaltish poison. While the only apparent cure appears to be found on the Isle I’ve long had the hypothesis that it is not the only option. Otherwise, it seems unlikely poisoners would have been able to refine it so well. There is of course the possibility it is so rare because poisoners do _not_ have access to the antidote and thus many are hesitant to use it.”

 

“You haven’t shown much interest in this sort of thing before,” he says, surprised. “Was there a book on this?”

 

You realize very suddenly what you’ve done. He shifts slightly at your expression and you find yourself with the urge to fiddle – redirect your sudden nerves to something else. “I had a reason to look into it,” you admit. “During the Summit.”

 

“Was someone poisoned?” he asks, aghast. You smile slightly, and for a moment he just looks at you. Then his usually rosy cheeks go white. “ _You_? Whatever for?”

 

“They thought I was my cousin,” you say, and launch into the whole sordid story and it’s eventual end. Emmett’s eyes never leave your face and you find it easier to tell with his patient self as the audience. “..and so that’s that,” you say at the end. “This big...petty thing.”

 

Emmett shakes his head. “Well it was something to them, and you,” he says. “That’s not so petty. I am glad you told me, even if it’s much later.”

 

You flush at that. You know it is not really an admonishment, but you feel bad. You don’t suppose it’s good to have a relationship with secrets hanging over it. “I’m glad I told you,” you say, “there’s this excellent treatise by Cai Doran that says that couples are a lot like a building. If your foundation is not solid it can be disastrous and-”

 

Emmett does not make a habit of interrupting people, but he does now, kissing your cheek. “I don’t think we’re rocky,” he says.

 

You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't, but you cannot help yourself. "Rocks make for very find foundations. You don't even need mortar - there are examples of houses made entirely of stacked rock. Most are found in north and eastern Wellin, I think the only extant village is-"

 

"Gritwaller!" Emmett said. "My fourth foster-mother's family lands encompassed the village and she took me there for the end of summer and harvest - did you know that in the north east of Wellin all of the festivals can be directly linked to traditional Skaltish festivals?"

 

* * *

 

 

The gazebo is not the height of security, which is probably the point, you think as the Duke presses close, pulling you so flush you’re scared your buttons will catch. Buttons – quite the thing to concern yourself with at a time like this!

 

“Tell me a secret, pretty bird,” he says, voice husky.

 

“You already have one,” you remind him as his hand slides up your thigh.

 

“Believe me when I say I have for more to lose than you,” he says.

 

You don’t, but you manage to plaster on a smile. “Very well, I’ve been poisoned with a rare poison few if any will have every heard of and now have only my own wits to save me.” You adopt a jaunty little tone as you say it, treating it like a game. He pulls back enough to study you before he huffs and shakes his head.

 

“Very well, my lady,” he says, “I will just have to do some work to get anything out of you, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

 

As a rule, because he does not speak much, Lyon is rarely responsible for loud noises. So it’s a bit of a surprise when you’re woken one day by pounding on the door – and it is Lyon on the other side. When you open the door, he looks even more dishevelled than usual and you can see that the person across the hall is peering out at you in wonder.

 

“Your grace,” you say, so far beyond surprised you’ve looped back around to calm. “This is hardly-”

 

“You have a book,” he says. “I was looking for it, you have it.”

 

“Er,” you say. You suppose you should have seen this coming. “Which book?” you ask, but he just looks down at you. Finally you take the hint. “Your grace, would you like to come in and discuss this problem?”

 

“Yes,” he says and sweeps you. Bemused, you offer your peeping toms a curtsy. “Would one of you mind having someone send refreshments?” you ask. You hear a round of closing doors, and can’t help but smile. Lyon has made himself...something, standing stiffly in a far corner. Since you can’t close the door without stirring up a great amount of gossip, you join him.

 

“If this is all about a book-”

 

“Are you going to die?” he asks.

 

“What?” you ask, wondering what the natural progression from books to- “oh.”

 

“I hadn’t noticed anything wrong at first but I noticed upon reflection and-” he grimaces, “ _asking_ someone, that your interest in this school of botany took place alongside a noted lack of appetite and your going to bed earlier. Are you going to die?”

 

“No,” you say, wondering who exactly was noticing these things about you. A maid, maybe? Or the kitchen staff. It was preposterous to imagine Lyon stooping to genuine gossip with a fellow, eagle-eyed delegate. Or maybe he outsourced his butler. “I managed to concoct an antidote. All symptoms disappeared within 72 hours and there has been no reemergence of those symptoms since the last dose of medicine.”

 

He nods. “Good,” he says. “I-I would be...very distraught, if you were to die.”

 

The declaration is shocking. He wrote you a letter last time he had to express an emotion – though you understand some. It is far less messy to write things down, plan them out before you enact anything. Besides, the written word is much more concise.

 

“Thank you, Lyon,” you say. He nods again.

 

“May I have the book?”

 

 _What?_ You stare at him a moment, frankly flabbergasted, until you see the way his eyes dart away; how his jaw tenses. “Yes, Lyon,” you say. “It’s just on my desk, there in the red leather.”

 

Lyon doesn’t say anything, just uses his long legs to reach his destination, and then stride out the door. Past Jasper, who’s there with the tea looking rather knowing.

 

“My lady,” Jasper says once Lyon is gone. “Perhaps a dressing gown would be appropriate?”

 

“Er,” you say, a little off balance. You’d been so surprise you forgot entirely you were still in your sleeping gown. “Yes,” you say lamely, “it would.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am by far the most unfamiliar with Jarrod and Woodly, but I know you like Jarrod so I tried to give him a fair shake! I hope you enjoy this, and have very happy holidays! Life was very hectic, so it may contain errors for which I'm very sorry (and if you're an alpha backer - I am not and so anything here is blind speculation without anything subconcious creeping in)


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